


Always the Best People

by missparker



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: 5 Things, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/missparker
Summary: Five meals prepared by Mr. Butler.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 158





	Always the Best People

“ _People who love to eat are always the best people._ ”  
― Julia Child

1.

Mr. Butler makes _quiche aux champignons_ for breakfast along with hot coffee and platter of fresh fruit and that’s a fine way to start any day, particularly this one. It’s the end of spring, they’re careening into summer which is always her favorite season. Both due to long sunny days and of course, her birthday and then Christmas right on its heels. With so much to look forward to, she comes down stairs in a good mood and leaves the breakfast table full and content.

She has a good feeling about today. It’s been two weeks since she’d last investigated a murder and she’s been thinking about Inspector Robinson exponentially, feels that today she shall see him, for one reason or another. Perhaps some poor soul will perish to bring them together and if not, she’ll simply have to invent some other reason. Drop by the station with the last slice of quiche or perhaps Dot has an urgent need to see Hugh that cannot wait until his working hours are over. 

Of course, Dot and Hugh had gone to the pictures just last night so that might be a ruse that is easy to see through, but any meeting between her and the Inspector without a body will surely be seen for the fabrication that it is. 

Upstairs Dot has laid out two options on her bed - a skirt and blouse or a day dress. She likes the dress, pink and flowing and designed for the wearer to stay cool. Florals are appropriate for the season, but she doesn’t want the dress, doesn’t want to feel young and girlish. She chooses the skirt and patterned blouse, aiming for a little more sophistication. If she had a murder to investigate she could insist on slacks. She knows her white ones, her preferred sleuthing slacks, are out to be laundered after an unfortunate situation with a leaky tea thermos. Dot had treated the stain and sent them out and has reassured her they will survive. 

“Here, Miss,” Dot says, coming in with a pair of mauve shoes, perfect for the blouse and the darker skirt. After so much time together, Dot can put together an outfit that Phyrne likes nearly better than she can assemble one herself.

“Thank you, Dot,” Phryne says. Dot kneels, does the delicate buckles for her. 

There’s nothing much on the roster for the day except for afternoon tea with Aunt Prudence, a chore that can be put off no longer. But not all is lost - it’s a warm day, sunny with a small breeze. “Pack up our swimming things, Dot,” she says decisively. “Perhaps Aunt P will allow us a brief frolic in that pool of hers.”

Dot smiles. “Of course, Miss.” 

Phryne has never seen Prudence use her own pool, not one toe in the water. Too undignified to do so in front of company but Phryne doubts she’d do so alone either. In that house, with all her staff, she’s never truly alone. But Phryne doesn’t mind an audience and it gets so warm in the afternoons. Even if Prudence forbids a swim, she and Dot can dip their toes in for a refresh before heading home.

By way of the City South Police Station, perhaps?

She dawdles the morning away with correspondence and small household tasks, hoping that the phone will ring but alas, it does not. 

“Is it wrong to wish someone dead for the sake of my own desire to solve a crime?” she wonders aloud when Dot catches her staring at the phone. Dot’s expression is telling enough. “Don’t answer that,” Phryne instructs hastily. 

Aunt Prudence’s house is always impressive, if a little stuffy and overly formal. But the weather is nice enough that even Prudence has ordered the windows to be opened and air to be let in. The formal parlor is all sunlight and billowing curtains and the tea service comes along with the lemon scones that Phryne favors and even Dot has two. Prudence carries them through the tea with society talk and Phryne makes herself be very well-behaved, indeed because she knows she’ll simply have to be rewarded. 

When the tea is completed, Phryne says, “Aunt P, it’s such a lovely day. Why don’t we have lemonade outside? Give that swimming pool of yours some attention.” 

Phryne knows the universe is on her side today, because Prudence thinks it’s a fine idea. Perhaps she’s simply happy that Phryne is not rushing through the visit as if it’s an unpleasant obligation. She has been guilty of doing so on more than one occasion, but Phryne does love her Aunt and with so little family left in Melbourne, knows that they need one another whether either will admit to it or not. 

Dot is shy, her swimming costume ten years out of date. It still goes down past her knee while Phryne had hers made only last year and it stops at her thigh. She can tell that Prudence doesn’t care for it but since it’s no one but the three of them, she holds her tongue. Dot stays in the shallow end on the steps but Phryne dives in. 

It’s not until she’s under the water that she realizes she’s foiled her own plan of stopping at the police station on the way home. She won’t want to do so wet, with spoiled makeup. Ah well. This isn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon and her mood remains buoyed. 

She swims the span of the pool ten times before giving up on physical fitness and trying to lure Dot into the middle with promises of adventure, new frocks, sending her and Hugh on a sweethearts holiday. Dot won’t budge past the tops of her knees, why, her swimming costume barely gets wet at all.

“Cool feet are enough to cool the rest of me,” Dot promises.

One of Aunt Prudence’s maids is hurrying across the grass from the house toward them, her starched apron impossibly white and clean in the direct sunlight. Phryne spots her right away, the tense look on her face. 

“Mrs. Stanley,” she says. “There’s a telephone call for Miss Fisher.” 

Phryne grins, snaps her fingers, swims for the steps. She can tell, she can simply tell by the ashen look on the girl’s face that there’s been a murder. What good fortune!

Some time later, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson makes a striking figure against the light of the late afternoon as Phryne parks the Hispano-Suiza on the opposite side of the street from where he stands, peering down at the dearly departed, covered now by a white cloth.

She is late. He’d expected her sooner, no doubt, but she’d had to right herself to the best of her abilities in Aunt Prudence’s house. She’d had a tube of lipstick in her handbag, some powder, but her lashes are bare and her hair still a little damp. 

“Miss Fisher, at last,” Jack says, dry as the desert. 

“I do have a life, you know,” she says merrily. “And anyhow, I did come when called. Let us focus on that.” 

He is looking her over, she can feel it, but she ignores it to peer down at the cloth, the secrets it covers.

“What happened?” she asks, looking up at him. “And why, prey tell, did you call for me?”

“I can investigate on my own,” he reminds her, only very slightly petulant. 

“I never doubted that,” she replies.

“However, this man happened to have your card in his jacket pocket,” Jack says, holding out the small square of paper to her. It _is_ her card, something she’d paid a small fortune to have made in Sydney and shipped in a rush. It’s lovely work. The letters embossed, gold detailing. _Lady Detective_. Just the sight of the words give her a small thrill. She’d ordered 100, surely too many, but the newspapers say that Melbourne is due to hit one million in population in the coming months so perhaps, too few?

But this particular card looks worn, like it has been passed around, carried in someone’s pocket far too long. The corners are bent and one edge has a stain. Too light for blood, too dark for tea. Something, then, in the middle. 

“Interesting,” she says, because it is. “May I?”

He hands her the card and she sniffs it lightly. “Soy sauce, I think,” she murmurs. Suddenly, she is gripped with the fear that under the sheet lies her dear friend Lin. She snaps her head up and says, “Who is it?”

Jack nods at Hugh who bends over and pulls back the sheet.

It is not Lin, and she is grateful. It’s a caucasian man, older than Hugh but younger than Jack. A dock worker, perhaps, by the look of him. He looks weathered, tan, like a labourer. She hands the card back.

“Do you know him, Miss Fisher?” Jack asks.

“No,” she says honestly.

“Can you think of a reason he might be carrying your card?” Jack presses.

“I couldn’t say other than perhaps my reputation for my work has preceded me, in this instance,” she says. “I’ve given dozens of these out. Anyone could have easily passed it along to someone else.”

“There’s no need to feel defensive, Miss Fisher,” Jack says. “I’m only looking for information, not accusing you.” 

She nods, trusts him to be telling the truth. “Perhaps the universe slipped it into his pocket to bring us together again once more,” she says softly, more to herself than to him; she’s busy looking the man over in greater detail. 

“Perhaps I slipped it in there myself, out of desperation,” Jack says, matching her soft tone. She looks up at him swiftly, searchingly to see if he’s teasing her and he does have a small smile but he looks genuine, looks fond, nearly. 

“Well,” she says, batting her lashes at him. “Mystery solved.”

2.

Mr. Butler’s skills in the kitchen are unmatched, in Phryne’s opinion, but she does adore his simple meals the most. This evening, at her request, he makes _coq au vin_ because she longs for something comforting and familiar. She can hear when he begins the meal, fetching the bird from the butcher and quartering it expertly with confident whacks of his cleaver. 

It’s when she starts to smell the flesh sizzling in the wine that she rises, leaves the parlor to go dress for dinner. This evening she’s having a guest. Instead of a family dinner at the wooden table in the kitchen, it will be place settings for two in the dining room. Perhaps candles, perhaps not. She wouldn’t want to come on too strong and spook the Inspector who has for the first time, agreed to come around independent of a shared investigation.

She’d simply phoned him, invited him for dinner. He’d accepted. One can’t always wait around for murder. 

So she’d asked for _coq au vin_ because Mr. Butler does the best when in the French cuisine but it won’t be too much for the stoic Inspector to handle. Nothing too expensive, ornate, or luxurious. The only luxury will be her haute couture evening dress, tailored for a perfect fit and arriving in a paper wrapped parcel just this morning. Not a ball gown, but nothing she’d show up in to solve a murder. 

Dot helps her dress, fawns just a little over the sparkle produced by the gems sewn into the fabric - not too many, just right. And then Dot shrugs on her coat, puts on her hat, and is off to see her mother and siblings, perfectly willing to share a meal with them so that Phryne can have the Inspector all to herself. Phryne has already had Mr. Butler pack a basket full of delectable goodies for Dot to take with her as a treat. 

She looks herself over one last time in the mirror and is satisfied, descends the stairs to ponder over her bar cart until Jack arrives. He prefers whiskey neat, but wouldn’t it be fun to have a cocktail before they sit down for dinner? Something in the new set of coupe glasses perhaps. She used to drink cognac drinks after the war in Paris, perhaps with a little effort she could recreate those with what she has on hand. 

The whole bottom floor now smells like garlic sizzling in olive oil and she can hardly stand it. She spends a good fifteen minutes playing chemist over an array of spirits until she comes out with something she’s happy with, sets two cocktails on a silver tray. 

She’s ready, now all she needs is her handsome inspector to-

Oh no. The telephone. It’s too late for social calls. Perhaps Mac would call at this hour, but only if something was wrong. Aunt Prudence only if she was in need of immediate assistance. Maybe Dot has decided to spend the night in her childhood bedroom, yes, that could certainly be it.

Mr. Butler answers the phone in his apron, his posture erect. Phryne hovers just on the other side of the parlor door, her hand against her heart. She can feel it beating from the inside, feel it from the outside too. Like a butterfly flapping its wings. 

“Of course, sir, I will let her know,” Mr. Butler says.

It’s difficult not to be disappointed but she endeavors to hide it, looking up at Mr. Butler with the most neutral expression she can muster.

“Miss Fisher,” he says. “I’m sorry to say that the Inspector has telephoned to say he is running late and will surely miss dinner.”

“I see,” Phryne says, 

“He did say he would come for a nightcap,” Mr. Butler says. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, mustering up her good cheer. It takes more than a mild disappointment to ruin Phryne Fisher’s evening, after all. “You’ll just have to be my dining companion, Mr. B.”

“Me?” he says, though he looks quite delighted. 

“Yes!” she says. “And I’ve already made you a drink.”

“Why Miss Fisher,” he says, accepting the cocktail. “I would be delighted to dine with you this evening.”

3\. 

They wrap the investigation up just in time for her to have to go through with the charity luncheon she’d agreed to host with Aunt Prudence, against her better judgement. It’s not that she dislikes philanthropy, she believes in the cause very much. She just doesn’t believe in luncheons. Not these sort, anyhow. These women know exactly how much money they’re willing to part with well before they’ll step foot into Phryne’s home, so why bother with the performative aspect of the meal at all? She wishes they would just leave their donations at the door and go. 

It was an overly eventful night and she’s quite tired this morning, a touch out of sorts. She rises eventually, deep into the late morning and comes down with bedhead, wrapped in a silk kimono only to find her kitchen a flurry of activity. 

“Why isn’t this happening at Aunt Prudences, again?” she says, surveying every counter covered in trays of finger foods. “Someone please remind me.”

“Miss!” Dot says. “Company in one hour and you aren’t ready!”

“Decidedly not,” she agrees, snagging a grape off of the bunch and popping into her mouth.

“Mrs. Stanley is having new carpets installed,” Dot says half following her, half ushering her up the stairs. “You were very amenable to the idea when it was suggested.”

“That was weeks ago,” Phryne says. “That Phryne didn’t know she was going to be shot at last night!”

“You told me that you always assume someone is going to shoot at you, that’s why you carry a gun,” Dot says, turning on the taps to the tub while Phryne flops back onto her rumpled bed. 

“Yes,” she says. “Can’t very well argue with myself, I suppose.” She smiles at Dot. “I’ll try and cheer up, hmm?”

“I am very glad you weren’t shot,” Dot reiterates. “Or me, for that matter.”

“You were very snug and safe in the police car,” Phryne says. “We all came out unscathed. Well, except for Mr. Taylor.”

“The Inspector has a good aim,” Dot agrees.

“Was it his aim, or my very fine weapon he was employing?” she asks, but she’s only teasing. When the tub is hot and full, Phryne sheds her kimono and climbs in. She allows herself only five minutes to lie and soak while Dot rushes around, pulling out her dress, her silk stockings, her white gloves. All the trappings of a ladies’ luncheon. 

They’re mostly Prudence’s friends and acquaintances, all several years older than Phryne, or most of them anyway. She’ll be the only unmarried one in attendance who isn’t a widow. 

She lets the thought of not being tied down to any man buoy her and gets to work scrubbing up. 

Aunt Prudence has arrived when Phryne comes down and is already cross that she wasn’t greeted. She gives Phryne a small lecture that is cut off only by the first of the guests arriving. Saved, as it were, by the doorbell. Prudence is not wrong, it’s just that Phryne doesn’t care about good manners half as much and there ought to be some leeway when it comes to both being family and surviving being shot at mere hours before.

It’s only she and Prudence and six other ladies, but eight is quite enough for Phryne’s table and they’re cramped, though no one says as much. If Prudence weren’t getting carpets they could have had at least twelve and raised more, but it is what it is. 

Somewhere between the fruit salad and the mousse canapés, she excuses herself to the kitchen under the pretense of asking Mr. Butler to uncork another bottle of champagne but really to have a moment to herself. She’d never have to ask Mr. Butler something like that and in fact, he’s holding a bottle already uncorked the moment she walks in.

“You’re a saint,” she says. “Headache powder?”

“Just there,” he says, nodding toward a cupboard by the door. She’s stirring a sachet into a glass of water to down in a hurry when the doorbell goes off. They’re not expecting another guest. Mr. Butler has his hands full with luncheon service, so Dot answers and she can hear her say, “Inspector!”

Oh thank god, a distraction worthy of her attention. She breezes past the group of ladies, glass sill in hand. 

“Jack,” she says in the foyer. 

“Miss Fisher,” he says. “I’ve come to return some police evidence to you.” He realizes, however, that there’s company. “I’m sorry, I’ve interrupted.”

“No!” she says. “No, no, please, come in. Have you had lunch? There’s plenty to go around. Mr. Butler!” 

Aunt Prudence looks mad enough to spit, though Phryne doubts she knows how to do so with any accuracy. 

“Miss Fisher, it’s no trouble for me to-”

“Can we fix the Detective Inspector a plate?” she says over him to Mr. Butler. “You know how he loves your cooking.”

“Of course,” Mr. Butler says. “Right away.”

“Ladies, you know Detective Inspector Jack Robinson from City South,” Phryne says. Jack looks out of his depth, gaping for a moment at the room positively stuffed with society women. But he nods at them, hat in hand. 

“Ladies,” he says. “A pleasure.”

They all reciprocate politely.

“The Inspector was just here to return something,” Phryne says. “What was it?”

“Another time, Miss Fisher,” he says.

“No, you’re here, you’re going to stay for a bite,” she says. “Come on, hand it over.”

They all watch expectantly. Jack leans in and whispers directly into her ear.

“It’s your gun.” 

She agrees, that hand off will not do. But he probably has done more damage with an intimate murmur into her ear than he realizes. Another lecture from Prudence before this day is done, no doubt. What’s one more at this rate, may as well heap it on. 

“Mr. Butler, bring in a chair from the kitchen and squeeze him in next to me,” Phryne says. 

“Miss Fisher-”

“I _insist_ ,” Phryne says to him very pointedly, trying to beg him with only her expression. He studies her face and seems to receive her telepathic message because he softens, relents.

“What are we celebrating?” he asks, shrugging out of his overcoat and hanging it in the hall. It sags to one side, slipping on the hook from the weight of her gun. 

“We’re fundraising,” Aunt Prudence says, her cheeks pink with the heat of the bodies from the room and, no doubt, her annoyance toward her mannerless niece. “For the local girls’ secondary school.”

“A worthy cause,” Jack says.

It’s some work getting a ninth chair into the cozy dining room but Mr. Butler makes it work and soon Jack and Phryne are seated, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Rather close, indeed. She’s a bit surprised that Jack has given in but when Mr. Butler appears with a plate overflowing with goodies, both the previous two courses that he’d interrupted and the main, as well (tender lamb chops with a fresh mint sauce), he tucks in and eats with gusto.

Poor Inspector Robinson, always hungry. She imagines that the kitchen in his flat is grim at best, that no one cooks for him, anymore, now that he’s divorced. That the best meals he gets come by way of Phryne. She will endeavor, then, to feed him more often. There’s a fine line between lean and underfed and she does not wish for him to cross it. 

Evelyn Whitmore is saying something, Phryne leans in to hear and steadies herself with a hand on Jack’s knee, under the overhang of the table linen, of course. She can feel him tense up but he doesn’t bat her away and when she glances at him he looks downright amused. In his own subtle way.

When the dessert comes, she nudges the toe of her shoe against his ankle purely on accident, reaching for the petite white pitcher of raspberry sauce to drizzle over her small round of sponge cake, topped with whipped cream. She hears him clear his throat pointedly and gives her a look over the rim of his teacup.

He thought she’d done it on purpose! So she drags the tip of her shoe up the back of his calf. There’s no mistake about that. His fork clatters down to his plate and everyone turns to look at him. Under the table his other hand is balled into a fist on his own lap. She knows this because her hand covers it, gives it a squeeze.

“Mr. Butler,” she says. “This cake is positively divine.”

4\. 

“He can barely stand,” Mac says with concern just outside the door to the Inspector’s hospital room. “Two cracked ribs and a fractured wrist. It’ll be a few days until he’s back on his feet.”

“He won’t want to stay here,” Phryne says, gazing through the window of the door where Jack sleeps, heavily medicated for the pain of being struck by an automobile. Phryne had at least managed to get the plate numbers and had passed on her information to Constable Collins. She supposes another Inspector will have to take on the case. 

“No, and frankly, we can’t spare the bed,” Mac says. “But I cannot, in good conscience, release him to his own care.”

“Well then,” Phryne declares. “He’ll simply have to come home with me.” 

Mac gives her a sly smirk. “A terrible imposition for you, no doubt.”

“A tragedy I shall have to bear with grace,” Phryne says with a bright smile. 

“Absolutely not,” Jack says, several hours later.

“What other choice do you have?” Phryne demands.

“I can stay here,” he says, looking past where Phyrne is seated. Mac is standing just over her shoulder.

“One more night, perhaps, but I’ll be forced to release you well before you’re able to be on your own, Inspector,” Mac says and she does sound sincerely sorry.

“I’ll go home, then,” he says. “Work it out for myself.”

“If you go home I will simply have to come with you,” Phryne says. “It’s at least partially my fault the automobile struck you at all. I couldn’t live with myself if you sustained further injury due to stubbornness or neglect.”

“Miss Fisher,” he says. “You are not my mother-”

“ _Certainly_ not,” she says.

“Nor my nursemaid,” he finishes.

“Not yet,” she says.

“I will manage,” he says, though it’s through gritted teeth as he tries to rise. It’s odd, watching him lose his color in real time. He nearly manages it before falling back onto the cot, face white as a sheet and sweat beading on his brow. “Just give me… a moment to collect myself.”

Phryne leans over him, puts her face right up to his and forces him to make eye contact. 

“Jack,” she says. “Come home with me. Let me help.”

He gazes at her, his eyes flit down to her red lips and then close. “As you wish, Miss Fisher.”

They set him up in the spare room, after all, he’s slept in there before and so it ought to feel familiar. She doesn’t bring it up because she has no desire to embarrass him further and he says nothing of it either. It’s not perfect accommodation - it’s the small room that sits between her room and Dot’s. They’ll have to share the water closet - she already shares the upstairs one with Dot and the one downstairs is for guests and Mr. Butler, tucked behind the kitchen. There is a shower, though Dot uses that mostly as Phryne prefers her soaking tub. She’ll let Jack take his pick. If he needs help out of her tub, well, she’d be all too happy to oblige. 

Mac dopes him up good for the ride home and gives Phryne a paper sack full of medicine for him, instructions written out for her in Mac’s untidy scrawl. 

“Four or five days should be enough,” Mac says while they wait for Bert and Ces to arrive with the Taxi. Phryne had ridden with him in the ambulance, clutching his hand. She’ll have to send Ces to fetch the Hispano, later, from the docks.

“Call it a week,” Phryne says. “To be on the safe side.”

“He’ll knot up your bedsheets and climb out the window by day six, mark my words,” Mac says with a chuckle. 

“I can be quite hospitable, I promise,” Phryne says, only mildly offended. 

“No hospitality!” Mac says. “His ribs couldn’t stand your rigorous approach.”

Phryne spots the cab coming toward them; she straightens her hat and sniffs. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you allude, Doctor.” 

Mac barks out a laugh. 

Bert and Ces are a lifesaver, at any rate. They ease Jack from the wheelchair into the back of the cab and then into the house and up the stairs. He’s so out of it that he doesn’t do much other than go along with everything. Mr. Butler helps him change into pajamas and puts him to bed to sleep through the haze. 

Jack has already missed breakfast and sleeps through lunch, so Phryne asks Mr. Butler to fix him something simple and easy to eat around three when Dot checks on him and reports signs of stirring. 

Mr. Butler does not disappoint, he never has. He prepares a darling little board of charcuterie. A row of sliced meats, squares of cheese, crackers, a dish of jam with a silver spoon and a teacup full of broth. 

“Perfection,” she says.

She allows Mr. Butler to carry it up the stairs, but she's the one who knocks on Jack’s door and when she hears his grumbled reply, opens the door to allow Mr. Butler inside. She pulls the curtains back to let in some light and then looks him over. 

“We’ve brought you some sustenance,” she says. “Right here for now, Mr. Butler.”

He sets the tray on the nightstand and turns to the Inspector. “May I assist you in sitting up, sir?”

Perhaps it is Mr. Butler’s formality that Jack trusts, but he nods and Mr. Butler helps support him while propping him up with pillows. He’s not fully upright when it’s all over, but he’s much more erect, as it were.

“Thank you, Mr. B. I have it from here,” she says. 

Mr. Butler nods, leaves the door open when he departs. 

The tray is meant for the bedbound, and when she seats herself at the edge of the mattress, she can reach it. She brings it over and pops out the legs so it sits easily over Jack’s lap. 

“How charming,” he says. She cannot tell if he honestly believes it to be or is humoring her but she doesn’t much care. 

“Lucky it’s your left hand,” she says, reaching out to touch lightly the bandage around his wrist, the splint tucked inside. Mac had told her that he wasn’t to get it wet. Phryne is perfectly capable of rewrapping it when it’s time. She has another roll of the sturdy gauze in her paper sack from the hospital. Nursing is like riding a bicycle; it will be even easier without the trappings of death and war all around her. 

“Miss Fisher,” he says, looking quite weary indeed. “I must admit that I do not feel my best.”

“I’m very proud of you for saying so,” she says. “Now, you don’t have to eat the whole thing, but let’s try some nibbles, shall we?” 

She holds the teacup for him, helps him to take a sip.

“That is not tea,” he says with some surprise.

“No,” she says grinning. “More nutritious than tea, I’m afraid.” 

He drinks about one third of the broth, eats two crackers covered with jam, two pieces of cheese, one bit of meat and then waves the rest away. 

“We’ll try again in a little while,” she says. She moves the tray, tucking the legs in and returning it to its perch on the nightstand. “Now, might I check your bandages?”

He lifts his left arm and looks at it. “Seems all right to me.”

“Alas,” she says. “Not those. The others.”

He looks at her through heavy lids, already tiring out again. He’ll have to wait a little while longer before he gets more pain medication. Hopefully he can sleep some without it, doze until dosage time. 

“Do you think that’s appropriate?” he asks, the words slurring only slightly.

“In this instance, yes,” she says. “But even if the answer were no, I’d still risk a peek.”

He gives her half a smile for that and she takes it as consent. She is careful when pulling down the bed linens, tucking them just at his hips and then so carefully relieving the buttons on his nightshirt from their holes. 

She saw him the first day in the hospital, but the injuries had been so new. Now the bruises have blossomed fully beneath his skin and his chest and sides are riotously black and purple with angry red at the edges. She’s seen much worse, of course. Lost limbs, organs spilling out, necrotic flesh. But this, for some reason, makes tears spring to her eyes. 

“Miss Fisher,” he murmurs softly. 

Other than the cracked ribs, wrapped up tightly to restrict movement, he has a bit of road rash that Mac had told her to keep an eye on. If it starts looking inflamed, Phryne has an ointment to dab on it. It’s hard to tell now, everything so swollen still. She’ll have Mr. Butler chip some ice for a pack to help get that swelling down.

“Phryne,” he says very softly, so softly that it nearly doesn’t count. But his fingers do, reaching out to swipe her tear away, the one that has escaped and has been making its way over her cheekbone. 

He keeps his hand on her face for some time and she revels in it. They could stay like this, suspended forever in the light of the late afternoon but then, Dot in the hallway loud enough not to be missed and he takes his hand away. 

5.

Mr. Butler keeps up the house, whether his mistress is in it or not. It’s a glimpse into retirement, perhaps, the easygoing schedule he adopts though in much more luxurious accommodations than he’ll be able to afford, despite his more than fair salary. He wakes when it suits him, fills the hours with simple chores. Albert and Cecil are still on Miss Fisher’s payroll, so he doesn’t mind sending them to the grocers or the butcher. In exchange, they show up for dinner at least twice a week and sit in the kitchen with him. He prefers to share a meal with friends than to dine out or eat in every night alone.

He receives the ice delivery on Tuesdays, he cancels the laundry service because he can manage his own laundry by hand on his own.

Dorothy visits on Thursdays for tea. She’s beginning to show, though she’s not told him anything about it. He can just tell, however. He remembers Mrs. Butler well - how sickly she was at the beginning, how rosy when the swelling started and then toward the end when her sunny nature evaporated away with every gained kilo. He’d loved her through it all, and through the stillbirth, too. 

It took years for her sunny personality to return, though it did. Slowly, one ray at a time. 

Still, he makes a note of what Dorothy prefers and the next week he makes more of it. The citrus scones, the tuna sandwiches. The clotted cream he leaves behind because the sight of it seemed to upset her. Won’t Miss Fisher be so overjoyed when she returns?

“You could come for dinner, Mr. Butler,” Dorothy says. 

“Perhaps you will allow me to cook for you, Mrs. Collins,” he suggests gently instead. “I should like this house to be more lively on occasion.” 

She nods. “If that’s your preference.”

“How about Saturday evening?” he says. 

“I’ll check with Hugh,” she agrees. 

They finish their tea, he helps her into her coat. She doesn’t button it because it wouldn’t close if she tried. She’s chosen a good dress to hide in, however. Loose fitting and a busy pattern to distract the eye. 

“Mr. Butler, have you heard from the Inspector yet?” she asks, lingering at the door. 

“I suspect it will take a few more weeks for any post to make it to our shores, I fear,” he says. “I feel certain, however, that he made it to London safely.”

She nods. “All right. I’ll send word about Saturday.”

“I’ll expect you, unless I hear otherwise,” he reassures her. “Take care, Mrs. Collins.”

“You as well,” she says.

In fact, post does come three weeks later. It’s from Miss Fisher and it’s not a long letter at all. It’s merely a postcard with a photograph of the Palace of Westminster on it and on the back it reads _We’ll see you soon, Mr. B_.

Such a short missive but it tells him all he needs to know and he reads it with a smile. 

He’ll go to the butcher shop himself this time and order a beef quarter. Perhaps a _Beef Bourguignon_ for the evening the return, to warm them from the chill of the ship and weeks at sea.

Then again, they may arrive much sooner, if she decides to return the way she’d departed. He does so enjoy that aspect of working for Miss Fisher. He’s never sure what’s on the horizon and it keeps him on his toes. 

He’ll order oysters, just in case. A ham to bake with spices. A duck and a case of oranges. 

He slips the postcard into his pocket and heads to the kitchen to start a list. 

In the morning he’ll pull the heavy covers from the furniture in the parlor, fold them up and pack them away. He’ll rouse the house gently, one room at a time until it’s ready for its lady’s return.


End file.
